You Don't Even Know

by Sue Lawson

  “Enjoy, everyone,” said Dad.

  I picked up my knife and fork and avoided eye contact with Mum, who had made it clear without words that my shorts and T-shirt didn’t measure up to her dinner party standards.

  “Ethan, are you still planning on doing law next year?” said Jai. “Or have your plans changed since …”

  “No, no,” said Ethan. His eagerness made me cringe. “Still going to do a double degree, business and law. Live in res and join the rowing club.”

  “Fabulous. Aren’t you organised,” said Tiffany. “At Melbourne Uni?”

  “Yes, St Mary’s residence. Father Ryan has written me a great reference, and he’s had a chat to the committee about, well, what happened.”

  “Anisa has applied for physio at Melbourne and La Trobe and she plans to live in res,” said Jai, about his eldest daughter who, like Ethan, had finished VCE and was waiting for university offers. “But honestly, physio? I say if she can get the marks for physio, she should do medicine. Don’t you think?” He looked to Dad and Wortho.

  “Exactly.” Wortho’s voice was like the roll of an orchestral drum. “Go for the bigger bucks. The prestige.”

  “Because that’s what it’s all about,” I muttered.

  “Alex,” Tiffany’s cloying perfume wafted across the table and down my throat, “what are your plans when you finish school?”

  I sliced my roast beef. Bloody juices flowed onto the white plate.

  Did I tell her or stick to the family line of uni, degree, res, big bucks. Might be right for them, but it wasn’t for me.

  I wanted to be a professional lifeguard. Spend summer in Australia and move somewhere like Hawaii or Bali for the off-season. The only reason I’d go to uni would be to study PE so I could teach if working overseas in the off-season didn’t work out. Maybe I wouldn’t even do that. Maybe I’d be a lifeguard part-time and open a business, like a cafe and surf shop, at Phillip Island or along the Great Ocean Road.

  “Alex? Plan?” Dad scoffed.

  My attention snapped back to the room sparkling in the candlelight.

  “Flat out getting him to think at all,” continued Dad.

  Ethan laughed.

  My hands curled into fists and dug into my knees.

  “Of course Alex has plans, Dylan. He’s your son.” Ochio turned to me. “So what are they, Alex?”

  Mum spoke. “Alex is going to do a business degree, then take over the operational side of the business from Dylan. The way Dylan did from his father.”

  “Fabulous, Alex.” Tiffany smiled. Pink lipstick stained her front teeth. “You two must be so proud – both sons in the family business. I suppose you will join your brothers too, Harvey.”

  I couldn’t take it. Hudson’s Wreckers was not my future. I pulled my chair close to the table. “Actually, Tiffany, I won’t be working in the family business. It’d be great and everything but it’s not what I want.”

  Silence slammed down on the dining room.

  “Oh, really.” Tiffany looked from Dad to Mum, an eyebrow raised. “So what do you want?”

  At the end of the table, Dad placed his knife and fork down and set those wolf eyes upon me.

  I folded and unfolded the edge of the runner near my plate. “What I really want is to be a professional lifeguard.”

  “Like Bondi Rescue?” said Harvey. “Serious? That’d be way cool.”

  “That’s the problem,” sneered Ethan. “Alex isn’t cool enough or good enough to do that.”

  “Is that a proper job?” asked Ochio, looking from Jai to Wortho to Dad.

  A leer crawled across Dad’s face. “What Alex means, Ochio, is that he’ll keep working as a lifeguard at the recreation centre while he studies business.” He turned to Wortho. “Any chance that Lake Wendouree will be right for the Masters Rowing next month?”

  Dismissed. Again. I was over it.

  Voice shaky, I ploughed over the top of him. “Actually, Dad. I mean permanently. And not at pools. I want to work beaches in Australia during the summer and move to Hawaii or Bali in the off-season. Like Benny’s friend, Dale.”

  “Who the hell is Dale?” Dad’s eyes narrowed.

  “Friend of Benny’s. They were lifeguards together somewhere in New South Wales. I met him when he came to the rec centre with Benny.” Before Dad could ask, I added. “My water polo coach.” At least he used to be. Since everything with Mia, I didn’t want to play water polo any more.

  “Not Dale Anderson?” said Dad.

  Wortho sniggered.

  I shrugged. “Benny calls him Ando.”

  “Has to be Dale Anderson.” Jai chuckled. “Figured he’d end up either a beach bum or in the big house.”

  “What’s the big house?” asked Harvey.

  Jai chortled and leaned around me to talk to Ochio. “Dale Anderson was in our year at school. Pot-smoking, bleached-blond guy. Real beach bum, surfer type. Never fitted in with any of us. Got done for having dope at school in our last year, didn’t he, Dylan?”

  Like Dad, Wortho and Simon De Jong, Jai hadn’t moved far since finishing school. A suburb closer to his old school and school friends. No way was I going to hang out with anyone from school or even come back to the place when I was done.

  “Dale Anderson.” Dad reached for his wine glass. “Laziest bloke I’ve met. Weak. Real loser.”

  Wortho leaned back in his chair like a seal lazing in the sun. “A professional lifeguard. That’s hilarious!”

  “Do you go to uni to be a lifeguard?” asked Harvey. “Or do you buff up and get tatts and that?”

  “Alex with tatts? Yeah right.” Ethan shook his head. He couldn’t let a chance to needle me go by.

  “That will do.” Dad’s voice fell like a weight on the table, crushing the banter. “Alex will not be a lifeguard.”

  A bushfire of rage burned from my gut to the top of my head. I looked Dad square in the eyes. “The wreckers is not for me.”

  A knife scraped a plate.

  Beside me, Jai swallowed.

  Dad’s lip curled. “You’re assuming you have what it takes to work in the family business.” Dad’s voice sliced into me like a sword. “The people who work for me are hard workers. Respectful. Loyal. Disciplined. Trustworthy. That’s hardly you, is it, Alex?”

  The room pressed against my skin. My brain screamed “Tell him to stick it.” But I sat there, staring at my limp hands either side of the plate.

  “You couldn’t be trusted to empty my office bin.”

  Something exploded in my brain. “Why don’t you shove your bin and your business up your arse!” I flung my chair aside and stormed from the room and out the front door.

  56

  ROOM 302, NEUROSURGERY UNIT, PRINCE WILLIAM HOSPITAL

  I’ve been sleeping, dozing maybe, because somehow I was aware of noises beyond my room – trolleys in the hallway, hushed conversations, distant beeps. With a yawn, I stretch and roll onto my back. Well, to avoid it hurting too much, it’s more of a three-point turn than a roll.

  Vicky sits by Mackie’s bed. “Hi, Alex.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good.” She smiles, but doesn’t look at me. “You’ve been at it again with the flowers.”

  “If you don’t like them–”

  “No, no, thanks,” says Vicky, shooting me a quick glance. “They look lovely. Mackie deserves lovely things.” She turns back to her daughter. “Don’t you, love?”

  I watch Vicky wipe Mackie’s face with a flannel and apply lip balm. She straightens the pillow and sheets. It’s all about Mackie.

  A pang of sorrow swoops in my chest. “Has she – Mackie – been sick for long?”

  Vicky nods. “On and off since she was 14. Feels like forever.”

  “Must be hard.”

  “Not as hard as it is for her.” Vicky turns to face me. “I’d be here every minute if I could, but it’s tough. Not the drive, that’s easy. The problem is the time it takes to get here and back again. I work two jobs to pay
for everything. I had three, but …” Her chin wobbles. “Three made it impossible to visit at all.” She sits straighter in the chair. “Still, once she’s awake, we’ll take her home. That’ll be great. Her friends Tammy and Granger can visit. You’d like them. And Ash too. He’s Mackie’s brother. He’s lost without her. And her father should be able to drag himself out of his house to visit.”

  I try to think of something to say. “Can I do anything?”

  Vicky smiles. “Talk to her when I’m not here. Make sure she knows we need her.”

  “Sure.” A weight presses against my chest.

  57

  ALEX

  A weight pressed against my chest as I reached the school gates. After the funeral, Mum arranged for Harvey and me to have the rest of the year off from school.

  For Harvey, that had meant hanging around home playing computer games and watching DVDs or rowing with Dad and Ethan.

  But for me, it meant finishing essays, reading and preparing for end of year exams, thanks to Dad and De Jong who decided it would be in my “best interest” to keep up with my work. I may as well have been at school. At least staying home meant I didn’t have to talk to anyone.

  Seeing as Ethan had finished VCE exams the day before everything happened, he did what he liked. If I was him, I’d have stayed home. But not Ethan. He hung out with Stav, partied and came back hammered, if he did come home at all.

  And Dad didn’t say a thing.

  But if Dad caught me watching TV or listening to music, I was lazy. If I said I’d finished my school work, he banished me to do revision, even after exams, or tidy my room, or do any number of bizarre things. And if he was in the family room or kitchen when I entered, Dad left.

  It almost became a game for me to see how long he could stand being near me. Almost.

  Normally, Christmas meant a massive pool party at our place with all of Dad’s friends complete with Santa arriving on the back of a fire truck. But that didn’t happen.

  Dad even cancelled his work Christmas break up and he had never done that before, not even two years ago when Grandma died the same week as the party.

  Summer holidays were different too. Dad kept working, taking Ethan with him, which meant no staying at the beach house or barbecues or late nights or yachting or surfing or skindiving. Just day after long day at home.

  Harvey hung out with his friends, Zac and Ange, mainly at their places. Mum drifted along in a drug haze, and I stayed in my room. The only time I left was if Mum, instructed by Dad, insisted. When she did manage to nag me out of there, I’d tell her I was going to see Bart or Smurf or even Tilly. But what I really did was catch the tram into the city and hang out at the Fitzroy Gardens or, if it was hot and I had cash, the museum or cinema. Basically, anywhere I didn’t have to talk to anyone and where no one knew me.

  When I returned home, Mum never questioned where I’d been or who I’d been with.

  Turned out I was a pretty convincing liar. When I quit my job, I told Mum and Dad there wasn’t enough work at the rec centre for me. When Mum asked about Tilly, I told her everything was fine and when she asked about water polo, I told her competition had been cancelled. And nobody questioned any of it.

  But, two and a half months after Mia’s funeral, the school year was about to start, which meant I had to leave my room and face people again. And lucky me, Dad had arranged for me to check-in with the year eleven coordinator before school, who it turned out was Simon De Jong. Like me, he’d gone up a year.

  As I passed year seven kids, a moving mass of too big uniforms, I consoled myself that seeing De Jong would be about as bad as my day was going to get. Backpack loaded with new books, I trudged up the driveway, to the office, where all three secretaries were on the phone. The older one, wearing more make-up than Mum when she went out, raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

  “Need to see Mr De Jong.”

  She directed me with a pointed finger to the maroon chairs by the door. I slumped in the seat, backpack at my feet and waited.

  When De Jong arrived, he beckoned for me to follow him to his office. From behind his desk he looked me up and down. “Welcome back, Hudson.” His eyes seemed to bore into my heart. “How are you?”

  “Yeah, great. Tiptop!”

  Chin pulled in, he nodded. “Terrible business with your sister. My condolences.”

  I shifted the backpack on my shoulder.

  “So, Hudson, if there’s anything the school can do.”

  “I’m right.”

  His lips twitched. “Alex, our welfare office, Mrs Tr–”

  “I said, I’m right.” I stared at the polished wooden desktop.

  He cleared his throat. “Very well. There is, however, something we need to discuss. Your hair.”

  Of all the things I expected him to say that was not one of them. “My what?”

  “Your hair.” He opened a drawer in the filing cabinet beside him and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Its length and,” he glanced at me, “style, contravenes school policy.”

  “Haircuts haven’t kind of been on my radar, sir.”

  “I understand that, Alex.” His voice was more human than I’d ever heard it. “However, your appearance is a reflection of how you view yourself and the school. St James has a reputation to uphold.” He handed me the A4 paper. “You are after all a senior student now, and as such, need to lead by example.”

  I glanced at the page. The school’s hairstyle policy. The short version of which was neat hair, no colouring, no mohawks or shavings. Beneath that was a list of consequences.

  Only the second made my stomach flutter.

  Failure to abide by the college’s regulations will result in:

  1. Suspension until hair is attended to.

  2. Parents being informed.

  3. In the case of repeat offences, the principal will decide on further action.

  Dad’s thunder-faced warning about “keeping my head down” at school, and how he didn’t want a single call from De Jong this year echoed in my head.

  “Now, considering your circumstances, I think suspension is unnecessary. However, I will need to speak to your parents and ask that they ensure your hair is attended to before tomorrow.”

  I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. “Sir, Mum and Dad have enough to deal with.”

  “Indeed, but I’m already flouting school rules.”

  “Heaven forbid.” I stared so hard at his desk that my vision blurred. “Tell you what, how about I clear off and get my hair cut now. That way you won’t have to flout any rules.”

  “Alex, there is no need for this,” he scurried around his desk and placed a hand on my forearm. His nails were oval shaped.

  I flicked his hand away and stalked from the room.

  My phone buzzed as I reached the school gates. I took it from my pocket and scowled.

  “Father – Work” flashed beneath a picture of Dad standing next to Goofy at Disneyland.

  I leaned against the school fence and pushed answer. “Yeah.”

  “Is this Alex Hudson’s phone?”

  Dad’s secretary. “Hey, Julie.”

  “Alex, your father asked me to call.”

  “Figured.”

  “He said … never mind what he said. Are you okay, Alex?”

  “Fine, Julie.”

  Julie sighed. “Alex, go to the hairdresser and then straight back to school.”

  “How mad is he?”

  “On a scale of one to get your haircut? Get your haircut. Now. Do you need his credit card details?”

  I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the thirty dollars Mum had given me to buy a new school shirt. “Nah, I’ll be right.”

  “Okay, but, Alex, phone back if you need anything. Promise?”

  “Promise, Julie.”

  “Good luck, Alex.”

  I knew she wasn’t talking about the haircut. I pushed off the wall and trudged down the hill to the main road. Traffic droned, rushing to who kn
ows where. I wished I was in a hurry to be somewhere, anywhere, but here.

  At the intersection, I looked left, towards Mum’s hairdresser, then right to the shopping centre near the train station where a new salon with barber’s chairs and hairdressers wearing black jeans, T-shirts and lace-up boots had opened last week. Yesterday, on the way back from buying text books, pens, folders and stuff, Mum stopped at the level crossing to wait for a city-bound train. She glanced at the salon and screwed up her nose. “Hipsters. Will never survive in this neighbourhood.”

  I turned right towards the level crossing.

  After the haircut, I went home and sprawled across the sofa, watching a DVD. I was still there, eating cornflakes, when I heard the front door open and footsteps on the entrance slate. I turned off the TV.

  “… keep up that great attitude, Ethan, and you’ll be transferred into the office.”

  “You reckon?” Ethan’s voice reminded me of a bouncy puppy. “Working the yard is good, but I’d like to get a handle on the business side of things.”

  I stared at the sodden flakes in the bowl. Dad and Ethan hardly ever came home in the middle of the day. Keys clattered and glasses clunked on the stone bench. The bottles in the fridge rattled as the door opened.

  “Want a toasted sandwich for lunch?” asked Dad. “There’s chicken.”

  For a split second I thought he meant me.

  “Yeah, cool,” said Ethan.

  My left leg cramped. I shifted to ease the pain but knocked the bowl which sent the spoon clattering to the floor.

  “Did you get that haircut, like I told you?” snapped Dad, the lightness gone from his voice.

  I swallowed. What had seemed a good idea a few hours ago now felt like a ridiculous choice. “Like Julie asked?”

  “To my standards?”

  “To the school’s.” Not a complete lie. A bit of product to hold the top and fringe in place and my haircut would fit school policy.

  “Well, show me,” said Dad.

  I placed the bowl on the coffee table, stood and turned to face him.

  “Jesus,” he spluttered.

  Ethan froze, drink near his mouth.